They Humiliated His Pregnant Maid—Until The Mafia Boss Asked, “Who Touched My Wife?”

The proclamation echoed through the grand ballroom, freezing every political climber and mob lieutenant in their tracks.

Before Bethany could utter another hysterical word, Senator Garcia grabbed his daughter's wrist, dragging her backward into the crowd, his face pale with sheer terror. He knew what was coming. The entire political house of cards he had built over thirty years was collapsing around his ears.

At the far end of the room, Nikolai Petrov set his vodka glass down on a marble table with a sharp clack. His cold blue eyes burned with dark, lethal fury.

"Now," Petrov rasped in low Russian to his chief lieutenant. "Tell the men outside to move on the West Wing. We strike before the Irish sign."

Petrov turned and slipped quietly through the side doors leading to the West Wing corridor, followed by his four armed bodyguards.

In the center of the ballroom, Dominic leaned down to Charlene, his lips brushing against her ear. "Stay with O'Rourke's men. Vincent has ten guards surrounding this room."

"Dominic," Charlene took his lapel, her voice low and steady. "Finish it."

Dominic offered her a dark, fierce smile. "Always."

He turned and stepped into the private corridor leading to the West Wing study, flanked by Vincent and four heavily armed tactical operators.

The West Wing study was a massive room lined with floor-to-ceiling leather books, dark mahogany furniture, and a massive fireplace burning red oak logs. On the large executive desk sat the formal treaty papers—documents that would legally transfer the shipping logistics of the South Side docks from Garcia's committee to the Hamilton syndicate.

Petrov stood near the fireplace, his four lieutenants drawing silenced pistols from beneath their coats.

"Hamilton," Petrov sneered in heavy accents as Dominic entered the room and closed the heavy oak doors behind him. "You think you are clever. You bring a pregnant street girl out to impress the Irish, while you steal my docks."

Dominic walked casually toward the desk, not showing a single trace of fear or urgency. He pulled a gold pen from his pocket and set it beside the treaty.

"I didn't bring her out to impress the Irish, Nikolai," Dominic said smoothly. "I brought her out so she could see you crawl."

Petrov raised his hand to signal his men to fire—

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

The heavy glass windows behind Petrov exploded inward in a shower of reinforced safety glass. Four federal tactical operators clad in black body armor swung down on ropes from the roof, breaching the study with flashbang grenades.

BLINDING LIGHT. DEAFENING THUNDER.

Petrov's bodyguards were thrown to the floor, disarmed and pinned in seconds before they could even squeeze a trigger.

The side doors of the study flew open, and three federal prosecutors stepped inside, led by Special Agent Miller of the FBI's Organized Crime Division.

"Nikolai Petrov," Agent Miller announced, holding up a thick federal warrant. "You are under arrest for conspiracy to commit murder, racketeering, and international weapons trafficking."

Petrov stared in stunned, paralyzed disbelief as heavy iron handcuffs were slapped around his wrists. He looked up at Dominic, who stood by the desk, calmly sipping a glass of bourbon.

"You... you called the Feds?!" Petrov spat, blood dripping from his lip. "You are syndicate! You don't talk to police!"

"I don't talk to police," Dominic agreed smoothly, stepping closer to the ruined window. "I pay them to remove trash from my house."

Agent Miller turned to two other officers. "Bring in the senator."

Two agents pushed Senator Richard Garcia into the room. The senator was cowering, his suit rumpled, his hair messy, tears streaming down his face. Behind him stood Bethany, being held by two female agents, her red dress torn at the hem, her makeup ruined by hysterical weeping.

"Dominic! Please!" Senator Garcia sobbed, dropping to his knees on the glass-strewn rug. "I was forced into this! Petrov threatened my daughter! Please, use your influence—don't let them take me!"

Dominic looked down at the cowering politician with absolute, frozen disgust.

"You let your daughter throw a dish at my pregnant wife," Dominic said softly. "You let her call her a cow. You let her treat the mother of my child like dirt beneath her feet."

Dominic turned his back on them.